


The Cracks In Your Design

by we_remain_together



Series: 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge, Angst and Porn, Bottom Chris Argent, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Spit As Lube, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 23:45:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11679576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/we_remain_together/pseuds/we_remain_together
Summary: Chris Argent had always been a devastating patchwork of imperfections, but the cracks in his design had made him beautiful to Peter.Peter remembered everything. Every second of it. Not even the fire could burn that out. But if this was how Chris wanted things to go, fine. Fuck him anyway. Because, God, did Peter hate the man just as deeply as he’d ever loved him.





	The Cracks In Your Design

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in a series of one-shots inspired by [this](http://bluebellglowinginthedark.tumblr.com/post/31013467173/30-days-otp-challenge-nsfwversion) challenge. They will all be Petopher. I won't be filling these in order, but I will get to them all eventually.
> 
> #9. Against the wall.

Peter hadn’t been following him, as much as Argent would probably claim otherwise. He’d stumbled into that bar by chance and just as easily could have ended up anywhere else. There was a live band, some out-of-town blues musicians with their fine, dark suits and tipped fedora hats. It was very Louisiana-esque. Peter could definitely appreciate the cut of the vocalist’s suit jacket. The clientele left a little to be desired, though. Mostly locals. The décor was a little unkempt, too, much more “dive bar” than he was usually comfortable with. 

It was a little unsavory for his tastes, sure, but good enough for the night. He just needed a warm body, someone up for a good, hard fuck and nothing more. The full moon was in a few days and it was making him jittery. He needed _release_ , and as much as the teenage eye candy he faced every day occasionally drew his attention in a moment of aesthetic appreciation, he didn’t make a habit out of fucking inexperienced minors who couldn’t even buy a pack of cigarettes yet.

He heard Christopher’s heart before he saw him. He would always be drawn to it, the _cadence_ of it. Peter could pick out that sound in a sea of a thousand heartbeats, even now. It had been drilled into him like a carving on bone since the day they first met — 25 years. Had it really been so long?

Chris was sitting on a bar stool, sipping whiskey out of a glass tumbler. His eyes were red and bleary from drink. He had obviously been there for a while. Peter could tell by the lines of his shoulders that Chris had noticed him, too. He had learned how to read the man’s body language, looking for those oh-so-subtle nonverbal cues, if you will, a _very_ long time ago.

Peter ordered himself a drink — vodka chiller, no ice — and sat down at an empty table on the opposite end of the bar.

He just watched Chris for a while.

They had been working together on-and-off for the last few months. Derek was the alpha now, and he wanted peace with the hunters. Scott McCall had gotten over himself enough to finally join the pack, and wherever Scott went, Allison Argent was sure to follow. It had _not_ been an easy transition. Their first pack meeting, as it were, having ended abruptly when the littlest Argent tried to stab a knife through Derek’s thick skull. As it turned out, the girl was still smarting over the death of her mother. Go figure. But they’d gotten through it. This forced Chris and Peter into each other’s space at least once a week, but unlike Derek and Allison, things would never be alright between them. They had been broken beyond repair long before Peter ripped out Kate Argent’s throat.

Any time they were in the same room together, Chris would be as stoic and in control as he’d always been, but that just goaded Peter into provoking him in _every possible way_ until Chris’ cast-iron exterior cracked enough for the animal inside him to peek its head out. Peter would lash out at Chris until Chris lashed back, but that was just the dance they did, wasn’t it?  

Allison would give an admonishing “ _Dad!_ ” as Derek scowled at Peter, raising one of those ridiculous eyebrows of his. They didn’t know. They didn’t know the _real_ reason Peter’s entire family was dead — why Kate and Gerard had targeted the Hales in the first place. And if Peter had anything to say about it, they never would.   

Peter watched as Chris motioned to the bartender, a pretty little blonde with intelligent green eyes. He pointed down to his empty glass and held up three fingers. As the woman busied herself pouring his drink, he glanced over and locked eyes with Peter. Chris drained the whiskey from the glass in one quick pull, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and throwing a handful of bills on the table. He then stood on slightly unsteady legs and walked toward the back door.

Chris was probably there for the same reason Peter was, and the movements of his body said _follow me_ as clearly as a shout across the room would have.

Peter wasn’t sure what to expect when he walked into the alleyway behind the bar: Chris to tell him that he wanted to fuck, or Chris to empty a clip into his face. It could go either way, really.

If the bar itself was unsavory, this alley was a downright health hazard. There were two sets of overflowing dumpsters that had partially spilled out onto the ground. The brick wall behind them was decorated in amateur graffiti, and Peter could hear the tiny heartbeat of what was _undoubtedly_ a rat, or two. Peter’s nose wrinkled up.

Chris’ voice pulled his focus. “Do you have to turn your nose up at everything?”

“Come on, Christopher,” he said, ignoring the barely-there fire that flashed in the hunter’s eyes. Chris had never liked it when Peter called him that. “Even you have to admit this place is a few months past its health inspection.”

Peter could scent a plethora of unpleasant things in that alley, but above anything else, he could smell Chris. He smelled like _want_. Peter remembered the scent very well. It still hung in the air sometimes, in those few seconds between dreaming and wakefulness.

Chris had brought him out there to fuck, then.

Alright, fine. “Do you want to go somewhere else?” Peter asked.

Chris walked over to the graffiti riddled brick wall and placed his hands on it, palms flat. “No.”

Peter felt his cock jump in interest, but he let out a harsh laugh. “How presumptuous of you.”

“I didn’t come out here to have a conversation, Hale,” he said, looking back over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed to slits. “So shut up and get on with it, or leave me alone.”

“I have nothing to use as slick,” Peter said, surprising himself. Did he even care? “I’ll hurt you.”

Chris’ laugh was sharp in its cruelty. “You couldn’t hurt me if you tried.”  

Peter remembered this — from before. The way his hands used to fit against the curve of Chris’ hip bones. The color of the flush that would spread across the hunter’s skin as his chest rose and fell with rapid, gasping breaths. _Fuck, Peter, fuck, don’t stop._  Peter could remember _him_ , and every single mark and scar that crisscrossed his body. There had been a lot of them.

There were probably a lot more now.

A part of Peter wanted to _see_ them; to explore and learn Chris all over again; to run his fingers along every raised patch of skin — like he’d done when they were stupid, lovesick kids.

_What’s this one? **An omega in Texas. It caught me by surprise.**_

_And this?_ **Ghoul.** _How about this? **A basilisk in New Mexico. I was twelve.** And this one?_

Sometimes Chris would clam up and go silent, which meant the scar Peter was touching had been left there by Gerard. He would simply brush his lips over the mark and leave it be, then distract Chris with other, more pleasant things. Chris Argent had always been a devastating patchwork of imperfections, but the cracks in his design had made him beautiful to Peter.

Peter remembered everything. Every second of it. Not even the fire could burn that out.

But if this was how Chris wanted things to go, fine. Fuck him anyway. Because, God, did Peter hate the man just as deeply as he’d ever loved him. Chris _left_ him. Chris _quit_ on him, on them, and left him to rot, just like everyone else had.

Chris wanted him to make it hurt? Yeah. He could do that.

Things happened fast after that, but when didn’t they? As soon as Peter crowded up against his back, Chris made quick work of his own belt and jeans, pulling them down past his knees. Peter could still hear the melodic crooning from inside the bar; people laughing and glasses clicking against tables. It wasn’t unreasonable to think someone could walk out into the alley at any moment. He really wished they would. That some local busybody would stumble across them and see _Chris Argent_ bare-assed with his pants around his knees.

Peter kicked Chris’ legs apart as much as he was able, pushing him further into the wall as Chris pressed both of his hands against the brick again. “Just fucking do it, Peter,” he bit out through gritted teeth.

Peter tucked his face into Chris’ throat, just for an instant. He smelled like grief and cheap whiskey. It was pathetic. “Always so impatient.” 

Peter unzipped and opened his slacks, rucking them down his hips, just enough to pull his cock out. He slicked himself up with spit — it wasn’t good enough, nowhere near good enough — and pushed into Chris without even stretching him first. Peter didn’t know how long it’d been since Chris had last done this, but the thought of any other man touching the hunter _at all_ had Peter burying himself in Chris’ body to the hilt, hard, a growl twisting up from somewhere deep inside his chest. _Mine._ Chris was still his. Death and blood and fire couldn’t change that. 

Chris’ nails curled into the rough, weatherworn brick. “Go on, go on,” he said after a moment, pain making his voice thick. He clenched around Peter’s cock and rocked his body backwards, then Peter was moving. Muscle memory had his hands slotting over Chris’ hips and gripping tight as he drove into him. Peter didn’t ease into a fast pace, because why bother?

He remembered this, too. How fucking _good_ Chris always felt. So tight. Always, always, always.

Peter was being loud. He could hear his own voice echoing back at him. Moaning and gasping and growling in a way that was far from human. Chris’ forehead was pressed hard against the wall, his teeth cutting into his lower lip — he’d broken the skin; Peter could smell the blood — and he was making this choked, little hitching sound every time Peter thrust deep. Peter gripped onto the back of his neck and pushed him forward again, re-angling Chris' hips roughly and fucking him hard and fast until the sound of skin slapping on skin was almost deafening.

He tucked his face into Chris’ neck, like before. Peter wanted to sink his teeth into his fucking throat. “God, _Christopher_. Jesus, fuck.”   

Chris was holding back, restraining himself, his mouth clenched shut so he could control his reactions. But his cock — hard and dripping between his legs — gave him away.

The hopeless martyr. Fuck him. Peter wasn’t going to let him use this as some kind of self-flagellation.

He reached around Chris to wrap a hand around his straining cock. He half expected the hunter to just push him away, but he didn’t. He ran his thumb over the slick head, paying special attention to that sensitive bundle of nerves on the underside. Peter worked his cock in all the ways he _knew_ Chris liked it, until Chris was whining deep in his throat and fucking into Peter’s hand as wildly as Peter fucked his ass. He purposely angled Chris’ hips forward until he hit in _just_ the right spot. Chris gave a loud, throaty groan, his hands shooting back to grab at Peter, fingers clutching, nails breaking the skin of Peter’s neck and leaving bloody welts behind.

“Fuck, Peter, _there_ , you bastard. God, harder.”

Peter was more than happy to oblige. He made sure to drive hard into Chris’ prostate with every thrust, his hand jerking the hunter’s cock in time with the snap of his hips. Peter’s vision grew hazy, white lights flashing behind his eyes as the pleasure of Chris’ body sent little pinpricks of bliss across his skin like an electrical current. Their bodies moved together at a frantic pace. Chris was wrecked now, a deep growl rumbling in his chest as he tightened and quivered so sweetly around Peter’s cock.

Chris’ body grew as taut as a bowstring, his head falling forward to rest against the wall, then he was coming. His cock pulsed in Peter’s hand as he shot thick streams of come onto the filthy brick they were pressed against. Peter worked him through it, down to the very last drop. _I win,_ he thought. _I win, I win._ Chris’ ass clenched around him in a trembling, unsteady rhythm and Peter’s hips stuttered, then sped up, wild and uncontrolled as he fucked into him, _used_ him. He didn’t care if he was hurting Chris. He didn’t. He fucking didn’t. This was what Chris wanted.  

With a few more unsteady thrusts, Peter came inside him with a roar, filling him up.

He pulled out of Chris’ abused hole after a moment, watching as the come dribbled out of him. Peter rubbed the head of his cock against the swollen rim, his head tilting to the side as Chris’ shoulders shook in a slight shiver.

Without thought, he leaned forward to press a kiss to the side of Chris’ neck, but the hunter’s entire body tensed up, then he was striking backwards, quick as a viper, catching Peter hard in the ribs with a well-placed blow.

Peter grunted in pain and stepped back. 

Chris fastened his pants with steady hands, his face all hard-edged and stern-lines, like he didn’t have Peter’s come dripping down his inner thighs right now. “This will never happen again,” he said, his voice low and hollow as ever. Chris was finished with him now. This was Peter’s dismissal. He turned on his heels and left Peter in the alley without as much as a backward glance.

Peter didn’t try to stop him.

 _Go ahead,_ he thought. _Go lock yourself in a dark room with nothing but your bourbon and self-loathing to keep you company._

Peter didn’t give a fuck. He had devoted enough of his life to worrying about Christopher-fucking-Argent. He was done with it. And if he said that over and over and over until the words strung together and lost all meaning, maybe he could actually believe it.  

 _This will never happen again._ Yeah, they said things like that a lot. 

But it was always a lie.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is me writing porn when I should be working on the next chapter of Fortune's Fool... whoops. If you digged this, holler at me down below ;) Also, if anyone has a request on which prompt they would like to see me fill next, just let me know. XO!


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